Unhinged (Splintered, #2)(4)
Making eye contact, Jeb works his arms into the sleeves of a flannel shirt he had flung across his Honda’s handlebars. “She’s only in her twenties. Not exactly cougar material.”
“Oh, thanks. There’s a comfort.”
His familiar teasing smile offers reassurance. “If it’ll make you feel better, you can go with me when I meet her.”
“Deal,” I say.
He climbs onto his motorcycle in front of me, and I no longer care if anyone sees us. I snuggle as close as possible, wrapping my arms and knees tightly around him, face nuzzled into the nape of his neck just beneath his helmet’s edge. His soft hair tickles my nose.
I’ve missed that tickle.
He slides on his shades and tilts his head so I can hear him as he starts the motor. “Let’s find somewhere to be alone for a while, before I take you home to get ready for our date.”
My blood thrums in anticipation. “What’d you have in mind?”
“A roll down memory lane,” he answers. And before I can even ask what that means, we’re on our way.
I’m glad Gizmo’s tire is out of commission, because there’s nothing like riding with Jeb on his bike.
Swaying back and forth, our movements synchronize with the curves of the streets. The slick gravel makes him cautious, and he weaves slowly around traffic so he can brake without skidding through intersections. But as soon as we reach the older side of town, where only one or two cars share the road and traffic lights are fewer and farther between, he gives the throttle some gas and we pick up speed.
The rain picks up, too. Jeb’s jacket shields my shirt and corset. Stray droplets lick my face. Pressing my left cheek to his back and tightening my arms around him, I shut my eyes to indulge in pure sensation: the roll of his muscles as he eases into turns, the scent of the drenched asphalt, and the sound of the motorcycle muffled by my helmet.
My hair whips around us as the wind presses in from every direction. It’s the closest I can come to flying in the human realm. The buds behind my shoulder blades itch as if wanting to sprout wings at the thought.
“You awake back there?” Jeb asks, and I notice we’re slowing down.
I open my eyes and prop my chin on his shoulder, letting his head and neck shield one side of me from the soft drizzle. His “roll down memory lane” comment makes sense as I recognize the movie theater, a frequent destination of ours during my sixth-grade year.
I haven’t seen it since it was condemned three years ago. The windows are boarded up and trash nestles at the corners and foundation as if taking refuge from the weather. The Texas winds have knocked the oval orange and blue neon sign from off its perch above the entrance; it’s hunched on its side like a shattered Easter egg. The letters no longer say EAST END THEATER. The only word still legible is END, which feels both poetic and sad.
This isn’t our destination. Jeb, Jenara, and I used to have our parents drop us at the movies, but the theater doubled as a decoy for kids who wanted to sneak a few hours free from adult supervision. We would gather at the giant storm drainage pipe on the other side of the lot, where a concrete incline dipped into a cement valley. Stretching some twenty yards, it formed an ideal bowl for skateboarding.
No one ever worried about flooding. The pipe was made to drain the excess from the lake on the other side—a lake that had been gradually shrinking for decades.
Since it was as dry as a desert inside, the tunnel served as a hideaway for make-out and graffiti sessions. Jenara and I didn’t spend much time there. Jeb made sure of that. He said we were too innocent to witness what was going on in the depths.
But that’s where he’s taking me today.
Jeb cruises through the littered parking lot and across an empty field, then takes the incline on his bike. As we descend the concrete’s drop, I tighten my legs around him and let go of his waist, stretching my arms high in the air. My wing buds tickle, and I whoop and holler as if we were on a roller coaster. Jeb’s laughter joins my giddy outburst. Too soon we’re at the bottom, and I hold on to him again, the wheels skimming through puddles on our zigzag race toward the drainage pipe.
We stop at the entrance. The tunnel is as abandoned as the movie theater. Teens quit coming here when Underland—Pleasance’s ultraviolet, underground skate park and activity center owned by Taelor Tremont’s family—became the popular hangout on the west side of town. The rain’s coming down harder now, and Jeb balances the bike so I can climb off. I slip on the wet cement.
He catches me with one arm around my waist and, without a word between us, pulls me in for a kiss. I hold both sides of his jaw, relearning how his muscles work under my fingertips, reacquainting myself with how the rigid planes of his hard body fit so perfectly against my softer curves.
Raindrops glide over our skin and seep into the seam between our lips. I forget we’re still wearing our helmets, and the cold wetness of my leggings, and even the heaviness of my soggy shoes. He’s finally here with me, his body pressed flush to mine, and those white-hot points of contact are the only things I know.
When we finally break apart, we’re soaked, flushed, and out of breath.
“I’ve been dying to do that,” he says, voice husky and green gaze penetrating. “Every time I heard your voice on the phone, all I could think about was touching you.”
His heartbeat races against mine, and his words twine my stomach into a knot of pleasure. I lick my lips, unspoken assurance that I’ve been thinking of the same thing.